Page 3 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar
I go to the kitchen to start cooking around five, since I want to make sure everything’s ready and we’re done eating by seven,
which is the time Jamal always calls me. Even on weekdays, we’re both usually done with all our homework by this time, and
it’s after dinner for me and before for him. He likes his schedules, so even though we never officially decided on this time,
he’s always been consistent with it.
Thinking about it now, that does feel like a very couple-y thing to do, even though we haven’t been together since junior
year. Maybe that’ll change soon, though? Who knows.
Yami must hear me getting out the pan and ingredients because she’s in the kitchen interrogating me before I can even turn
on the comal.
“What are you doing?” she asks, as if me cooking is some miracle of modern science.
“I’m making dinner tonight. And every Sunday, starting now. It’s my New Year’s resolution, to give Mami a break,” I say proudly.
“But you don’t cook?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“What are you talking about? I cook like a chef, I’m a five-star Michelin—”
“You can’t have more than three Michelin stars,” she says smart-assily. “And I don’t think you can get a star with only one
menu item. Do you know how to make anything besides guisado?” She crosses her arms, all judgy.
“Fuck you, it’s a Stray Kids reference! And my guisado is fire, what do you want from me?” She hates when I copy her, so I
purposely imitate her crossed arms.
“So, we’re gonna eat guisado every Sunday for all time?”
I just shrug, and she pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Ay, ay, ay, let me help. I’ll teach you how to make sopa de pan, it’s Mami’s favorite.”
Normally, I’d be annoyed at Yami inserting herself into my act of service. But even if I’d never let her know it, cooking with her would be way more fun than doing it on my own. Besides,
guisado will probably get old if it’s all I ever make.
After a while of swallowing my pride and letting Yami be better than me at something, Mami follows the spreading smell into
the kitchen and practically melts, putting a hand over her heart when she sees us working together.
“My kids feeding me, what a treat!” She starts trying to serve herself a bowl, but Yami slaps her hand away.
“Let us serve you, Mami,” I say, and she holds her hands up in surrender, then goes to sit patiently at the table with a smile.
Yami ladles the soup into some bowls while I set the table. When I put the napkin and silverware in front of my mom, she beams.
“I’m so proud of you, mijo,” she says softly. “You’ve come so far since last year.”
I stiffen at the comment as it hits me why she’s so emotional over me making dinner. Why she thinks I need to be coddled and
sheltered and why I can basically do no wrong. But I quickly snap into whack-a-mole mode and shoot down all the budding thoughts
jumping out at me from where I buried them last year.
My last episode—BAM.
The hospital stay—BAM.
My dad disowning us—BAM.
None of that shit can touch me now. In fact, I’m so unbothered that I scarf down my food and joke my way through dinner with
Yami. So unbothered that when Jamal calls afterward, I don’t even bring it up. We also don’t talk about the lingering question
of whether we’re getting back together or not. I told him I’d think about it, so I know he’s not gonna ask again so soon.
Instead, he invites me to an open mic right by his house the Friday after next where he wants to share a new spoken word piece.
“I’m a little nervous,” he admits, which isn’t really like him. Not when it comes to his poetry.
“Why?”
“This one is... uh, well, it’s gay.”
It takes me a second to register what that means. “You’re coming out? Like, publicly?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding more confident now. “But don’t worry! The piece isn’t about you or anything, I wouldn’t do that
to you.”
I know he means he’d never out me in front of a crowd, but for half a second, I find myself getting a little pouty at not being the subject matter of his gay poem. It doesn’t last, though, because I quickly realize I absolutely don’t want Jamal to write and perform a poem about me in public.
“Thanks,” I finally say. “So, are you ready for all that? What about school? Do Nick and all them still go there?” I can’t
help but worry about Jamal coming out.
When I went to Rover, Nick and a bunch of his little lackeys jumped me pretty much every chance they got. I’d written a note
to Jamal back when we were dating, and Nick got ahold of it before I could give it to him. Luckily, he never found out who
the note was for, but he still made me his friend group’s punching bag until I transferred to Slayton.
“I’ll be okay,” Jamal says, still sounding cool and confident. “I doubt anyone from school will be at the open mic anyway.
So, you want to come?”
“Obviously,” I say with a smile.
“Thanks, Cesar. I really appreciate you.” I can hear him smiling back, and it makes me blush. Jamal’s never said he appreciates
something I’m doing or offering. No, he appreciates me . I’ll take this to my grave, but sometimes he just makes me want to kick my feet and giggle.
After we get off the phone, I lie in bed playing out scenarios in my head. This is usually what I have to do in order to fall
asleep, though it’s pretty hit-or-miss. Tonight’s scenarios all involve Jamal. The first one is me telling him I’m ready to
get back together. Who cares if I still don’t know if I’m ready in real life? This is my pre-sleep fantasy, fuck off.
Eventually the scenarios go from us getting back together to making out to a full-on sex dream.
I’m not really sure which part is my imagination or a real dream, but I must have fallen asleep at some point because by the time I open my eyes again, I’ve somehow missed my first alarm, and my second one is going off already.
7:00 a.m. take meds
I let out a tired whine as I roll over and force myself out of bed. It seems like even when I do manage to fall asleep at
night, my body doesn’t get the memo, and I’m still completely exhausted. I quickly throw on my school uniform and make a drive-by
trip to the bathroom to swish some mouthwash since I’m too tired to brush my teeth properly.
I’m still swishing it around when I head to the kitchen, where my mom is waiting for me with a plate of fried egg on toast.
I know the deal: meds first, then breakfast. I spit the mouthwash in the sink, then reach for the pill counter and take out
the pill for Monday. I make a show of rolling my eyes as I pop it in my mouth.
“Happy? Can I eat now?” I ask.
“Of course.” Mami smiles as she hands me the plate, but her eyes look sad. I know I shouldn’t give her attitude about taking
my meds, but I can’t help it. Maybe I just don’t like being told what to do or something, but I was never a fan of all the
surveillance that came after my inpatient stay. I feel like a fucking zoo animal, being monitored over everything. But since
Mami getting sad feels worse than me getting smothered, I push the annoyance down and go along with it like I always do.
Even though I got ready pretty fast today, we still barely make it to school on time, thanks to Yami trying out a new eyeliner look while still insisting on absolute perfection. By the time we get to school, the first bell’s already rung, and we have to book it to our classes.
I take my seat in astronomy just before the final bell rings. As soon as the music stops, Mr. Franco doesn’t waste a second
before getting started, talking in his usual drawn-out monotone that could put even the most caffeinated student to sleep.
“I hope you’ve all done your reading over the break, because we’re having a pop quiz,” he says as he picks up a stack of papers
off his desk and starts handing them out. Groans echo throughout the room from practically everyone except Jeremy, who sits
right in front of me.
“I’m all caught up.” Jeremy turns around and smirks at me. “Are you?” he asks with an air of confidence. He’s always seen
me as his rival in this class, since I consistently set the curve, and he consistently gets the next-highest score.
“I skimmed it,” I say honestly, and Jeremy’s grin falters, which tells me he may not be as well versed in the material as
he’s trying to let on. If me just skimming it is enough to make him think I have a leg up, he’s probably not much farther
ahead than the rest of the class.
Which means I have to recalculate my usual percentage of test answers to purposely get wrong in order to still set the curve
without making everyone else fail.
Mr. Franco is one of those teachers who prides himself on being a hard-ass and brags about how impossible his tests are and how many students fail his class.
I always make sure to keep my score under a 72 percent, but even that score sets the curve every time, with Jeremy’s being the next highest at usually around the high sixties.
When Mr. Franco sets the test down in front of me, I get to work. Setting the curve without screwing everyone else over too
bad is an art form, and I’ve perfected it. Based on the intensity of the groans and Jeremy’s feigned bravado, I should probably
not score higher than a 65 percent on this one.
Part of me wonders if rigging everyone else’s scores like this counts as cheating. Slayton is a zero-tolerance type of school,
and people have gotten kicked out for less. If I got caught, I doubt I would get expelled in this case. How can it count if my “cheating” doesn’t even benefit me? Deciding that I’m probably fine, I finish up the last quiz
questions.
Once I’m done, I doodle for a while in the margins to keep from turning it in too early. I know some people get real anxious
when other people start turning in their tests if they’re not close to finishing yet. I wait until a few people turn theirs
in before getting up and handing mine to Mr. Franco.
His eyes catch the doodles, and he gives me an amused smile. “You are something else,” he says under his breath, and for a